Babette - it starts with domestic violence

My Gingerbread Husband is slightly colour-blind. No, I'm not trying to insult him. After years of fights because I've been insisting that no, the bloody cushion isn't green, it's blue, or no, my skirt isn't brown, it's dark purple, you numpty, a professor at his university finally proved for once and for all that his colour perception is slightly skewed. I have the vote of the independent adjudicator on my side, yet still he insists on interfering in all matters colour-related. Opinionated AND colour-blind: he's just looking for a smack.

The latest tussle is taking place over the Babette blanket I want to make for his sister, my Gingerbread Sister-in-Law. Yes, I know, it's my own fault but I thought he might like to be involved in the decision-making process, i.e. bow to my superior wisdom, but instead he gets all feisty and offers ... suggestions. First of all, I made him look at pages of Babette blankets in Googlespace, but he basically lost the will to live after the first three pictures, so he chose picture one on page one and insists that this is the one his sister would like. It's a very pretty blanket to be sure, and I do like the colour-scheme, but I have a feeling that his choice was expediency and not an informed decision. But, no, he's sticking to his guns - so these are the colours we're going for.

I have bought about FORTY skeins of yarn. I've laid them out every which way but still he insists the colours in the picture are different. And not only is he colourblind and opinionated, he's ALSO incapable of expressing any colour in words apart from those depicting the Olympic rings.
"Isn't there a bit too much of that yellowy-white colour?" he'll ask, plucking at the cream.
I remove the cream.
"Now there's too much red," he'll say.
"Ruby, scarlet or cerise?" I'll ask (anything vaguely red - even dark pink - comes into this category.)
He looks startled, as though I've said a bad word.
"That one," he says and points at one of them. "And put in more of that orangey colour in."
So I add a skein of copper and two peach.
He stands back and squints again.
"Nah," he says. "Still not right."
We look at the photo. "Have you got any of that bluey colour?" he asks.
I point at the lavender.
"It's different," he says, shaking his head.
I explain that it's a different yarn - the blanket in the picture was made in the US, using a different type of yarn, so the colours won't be the same as the picture, it's just a guide.
More negotiations. Finally, we have a heap of yarn that bears no resemblance to the colours of the blanket in the picture, all laid out on the sofa.
"Oh well," he shrugs, "I've no clue about stuff like this. Just do it whatever way you like."
This is manspeak for I've had enough of this girlie nonsense. My testosterone has just plummeted to critical depth - I need to go and swing a sword at an Ork.

For crying out loud. That's what he says now. I'll be fifty squares into this when he'll look at it mournfully and say "The one in the picture looks ... different." It won't be a criticism. It won't be a comment, positive or negative. He will just establish - with his sad blue eyes - that it's different.

I'm telling you: he might need a smack.